Kelven's Riddle Book Three

by Daniel T Hylton

  Florm separated himself from the others and came forward to stand beside Aram. At the immense presence of the horse, Matibar flinched and the others moved involuntarily back a step, though they kept their weapons at the ready. Florm looked them over and then turned his head toward Aram, who had kept his thoughts open to his ancient friend throughout the course of the day’s conversation.

  Letting his thoughts flow out to whatever minds might be receptive, Florm asked. “How may I assist you, Lord Aram?”

  Matibar’s eyes flew wide in wonder. “I heard your voice!”

  Florm looked at him and hardened his tone. “That may speak well for your character, young man, but it gives you no right to interrupt when I speak with one that is higher than you. Keep silent.”

  Above his widened eyes, Matibar’s forehead wrinkled into a frown, but he gave no challenge to Florm’s command.

  The ancient horse let a long moment pass in order to give weight to the rebuke and to allow the Senecan’s discomfiture to grow; then he turned back to Aram. “How may I be of assistance, my lord?” He asked again.

  Aram indicated Matibar. “These people suspect that Lord Kelven was complicit in that which came upon them so long ago – in fact, they even believe that the Maker allowed it.”

  Florm turned to gaze at the tall, dark-haired man with incredulous eyes. “You think this?”

  “It is our history,” Matibar replied stubbornly, but his eyes remained wide and uncertain as he stared back at the enormous black horse.

  “And you were there?” Florm insisted. “So you may speak to the veracity of these things?”

  Matibar’s eyes narrowed to form a union of expression with the frown that yet creased his forehead. “Of course I was not there. That was ages ago.”

  “To you, perhaps, it was,” Florm agreed. “Tell me – have you ever heard the name ‘Felspar’?”

  The frown fled Matibar’s face. He tried to hide his surprise but failed, and a look of wonder overspread his features. “He was the last Prince. It was in his time that our people last lived among stone, when destruction came upon us.”

  “You are correct,” Florm said. “I did not know Prince Felspar personally, though I saw him once.”

  At this statement, Matibar’s fleeting sense of wonder dissolved once more into suspicion. “How could you have seen him? – as I said, it was ages ago.”

  “I was much younger then,” Florm answered caustically. “I am much older now. So – you at least know one name from your history.”

  “Every Senecan knows the name of Prince Felspar – he was the last of the proud.”

  “I said that I did not know the Prince of Seneca personally, and that is true.” Florm’s voice hardened again. “My father did know him, however, and spoke of him with admiration. He stood with Joktan, the king, many times in the struggle against Manon. Anyone who states that he was wrongfully proud is a fool.”

  Anger flashed in Matibar’s dark eyes. “You would accuse Pindar of foolishness?”

  “And who is this Pindar?”

  “He is the eldest of all men.”

  “The eldest, you say?” Florm softened the edges of his voice, but spoke clearly and distinctly. “The eldest he may be – I cannot speak to that. Certainly he is not the wisest.” Overriding Matibar’s rising protests, Florm continued. “The mighty Felspar, Prince of Seneca, along with the people of this ancient land – those you now deride as sinners – stood with King Joktan and his people and my father and my people to resist the might of the grim lord and to fight for the liberty of all. After Joktan fell, due to the grim lord’s subterfuge, Manon came here and sent his beasts throughout this land to kill and burn.

  “On this journey, we have traveled through some of your ‘cities of stone’ and have seen where your ancestors resisted him, alone and unaided, for the rest of the world had fallen, and Kelven was besieged. They fought for their freedom even as calamity beset them.” Florm lowered his great head and peered into Matibar’s face. “And these are the people that you speak of with shame and disparage by propagation of your fraudulent ‘histories’? Bah! You should be proud to call yourself a son of Seneca – for the Senecans I knew were brave and strong – one of the greatest of the ancient principalities.”

  Florm’s gaze swept the faces of the group, meeting every set of eyes, where flickers of doubt had begun to appear. His voice fairly boomed. “As for your cities and streets of stone, they still stand – except where you have torn them up – even after ten millennia. Again, I say – you should be proud to name yourselves sons of this land.”

  He held them with his gaze for a moment longer, and then stepped back, positioning his great frame slightly behind and to the right of Aram. When the horse finished speaking, Matibar stood like he was made of stone, moving only his eyes, staring first at the horse, then at Aram and his strange weapon, and then at Florm again. After a long moment, still silent, he looked down at the dirt track. Minutes passed. A desultory breeze brought the scent of the sea and the distant cries of birds.

  Finally, Matibar looked up at Florm. He tried to maintain an undertone of firmness in his voice but there was, instead, hesitancy. “We were not punished by the Maker?”

  “The Maker?” Florm snorted. “The Maker had nothing to do with that which happened to Seneca, or indeed to the rest of the ancient world. It was done by Manon.”

  “Why did not the Maker prevent it?” It was not a challenge. Now Matibar was seeking knowledge.

  “This I cannot answer,” Florm replied quietly. “I can only state that the Maker rules among the stars, and the earth he has given to men, and horses, and wolves, and the other noble peoples. This world is ours to inhabit and to govern. At the first, Manon – he whom you name the Scourge – was given as counselor to our fathers, but he turned to evil, and became instead their tormentor.”

  Florm drew in a deep breath and blew a blast from his nostrils. “At the end of all things, the Maker will undoubtedly judge the grim lord for all that he has done. For now, he has given us a man.”

  Matibar frowned deeply, furrows filling the space above his eyes, and once again, suspicion entered his voice. “A man? What man?”

  Florm was silent for a long moment, and Matibar glanced instinctively, albeit with skepticism, at Aram.

  “You guess correctly, son of Seneca,” Florm said. “This man that stands here, assuming nothing, declaring himself not at all, that you presume to threaten with your weapons, is the true heir of Joktan, and the mightiest warrior I have ever seen. He could slay you all, before you could discern his intent and think to prevent him.”

  Matibar looked at Aram in alarm, his gaze going intuitively to the sword.

  Aram spoke to the horse sharply. “Lord Florm –”

  “Nay, Lord Aram, it is the truth,” Florm cut him off. “I know that you seek peaceful relations with all, and that you do not threaten; nor would you raise your hand against Seneca, the ancient ally of your father. But these people have fed upon lies for centuries, and must be shaken free of their delusions.”

  Aram looked at Matibar, whose hand had gone to his bow. “Lord Florm speaks the truth – I would not raise a hand against your people. I came seeking allies in the struggle that is before me. Say that I should go, and I will go away, in peace.”

  Suddenly conscious of his instinctive act in reaching for his weapon, Matibar relaxed his hand and gazed at Aram. “Could you really slay us all?”

  Aram sighed, and glanced at Florm, before returning his gaze to Matibar’s face.

  “Yes,” he answered simply.

  After a moment, Matibar said, “I’m not certain I believe it.”

  Aram shrugged. “Then don’t believe it. I don’t intend to prove it anyway, unless my company is threatened.”

  Matibar made a motion with his hand, and the men around him relaxed their guard, letting the arrows slip from the nocks of each one’s bow. He gazed down at the dirt track, deprived of its paving of ancient stone, as if seeing
it for the first time. After a moment, he spoke without looking up. “It is hard to hear that that which you have believed for all your life may be false.”

  Aram waited until he looked up. “You are younger than me,” he said, “and I am not old. And I suspect that you had doubts before Lord Florm ever came to this land.”

  “There have been doubts, and they have oft times been expressed. Still,” Matibar seemed to be arguing with some inner voice, “we have believed this for many generations.”

  “I would not presume to tell you what to believe,” Aram answered softly. “I will just say this – it matters not the age of a mistake, whether it be of knowledge or of thought, or whether it be for a moment, or an eternity. If a thing is wrong, it is wrong.”

  Matibar met Aram’s gaze for a long moment and then stepped aside and indicated the road leading into the town. “If it please you and your companions, come into our dwellings. You may rest in our common house tonight. Tomorrow, we will begin to journey into the east, to meet with the Eldest and his council.”

  Aram motioned the others forward and helped Ka’en down from Huram’s back. He turned to Matibar. “What of our friends, the horses?”

  “What are their needs?”

  “Grass and water.”

  Matibar pointed through the town toward the east. “There is a stream beyond the town, and there are meadows of grass along its banks.”

  Aram inclined his head. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

  The buildings of the town, mostly two- and three-storied affairs, rose on either side of the ancient road which served as the main street. There were other streets branching off at regular intervals and the town stretched away toward the forest both to the north and to the south, seeming almost to meld into the trees. Aram estimated that the town contained as many residents as Derosa, perhaps more.

  At the common house, they relieved the horses of their burdens, releasing them to go on to the east, toward the stream and promised grass. Matibar led Aram, Ka’en and the others across the main street and into a large, square, three-storied house on the corner opposite the common house.

  The interior of this house was spacious and neat, though sparsely furnished, and bright. Each exterior wall appeared to be dedicated more to windows that could be opened to the outside than to providing shelter from the elements. Here, in the south of the world, cold was evidently never an issue. Matibar left them in the front room while he went to find his wife.

  Matibar’s wife, Hilri, was a tall, slender, dark-haired woman of cool, regal bearing. It seemed to Aram, as they were introduced to her, that everyone in this part of the world, with the exception of the short, stout fisherman he’d met at the first, was tall and slender. Hilri received them with dignified grace – though also with undisguised surprise – and then, ignoring the men, addressed Ka’en.

  “My husband tells me that you came from the west, and crossed the wilderness.”

  Ka’en nodded. “We did.”

  Hilri glanced out the open window toward the street, where heat waves made the air dance and shimmer. “It is a warm day,” she stated, again to Ka’en. “You will no doubt be thirsty.”

  “I am – I’m sure we all are, mistress. Thank you for your concern.”

  The woman of Seneca let her eyes rove among them, noting their travel-worn clothing, and no doubt taking a mental count of her unexpected and numerous guests, pausing and frowning slightly as her gaze fell upon Mallet’s massive frame, then she spoke to her two older children and the three of them went into a deeper part of the house. Matibar turned to Aram.

  “Please, be seated, and take your ease. I will help my wife with the refreshments.”

  The air was warm and muggy, but the windows on either side of the room let a mild breeze pass through. Matibar, Hilri, and the boy and girl returned with wooden vessels filled with cool, sweet, lightly-textured fruit juice. The substance was completely new to Aram, but it had a bright, extremely pleasant aroma and he drank deep of the refreshing liquid.

  Mallet instantly let out a cry of delight. “Banya juice! This is banya juice!”

  Hilri smiled for the first time. “There is banya juice in it, yes; but there is also the juice of the apiena.”

  Ka’en, eager to engage this stately woman, returned her smile. “This is wonderful – and so refreshing, but I am unfamiliar with apiena.”

  Matibar answered. “You passed many, I am certain, as you journeyed through the forest. The apiena is a tree; and the fruit grows high in its crown – difficult to harvest, but worth the effort.”

  Aram, sensing the conversation slip toward the trivial, looked at Matibar. “Do you have many guests that stay at the common house?”

  “None but Andar and his companions – and visits from him occur but seldom,” the Senecan answered. “He is diligent in his duties, but the land is broad and long, and there are occasional troubles in the east.”

  “Andar?”

  “He is the son of Pindar, born of his third wife.”

  “Three wives?” Mallet blurted out.

  Matibar’s mouth smiled slightly, even as his eyes frowned. “Not at once, of course,” he replied. “The Eldest has outlived two previous mates, neither of whom provided him with children.”

  Aram held up a hand, silencing Mallet. “Forgive me if I pry into things that are of a private nature, but – you stated two things of interest. One is that Andar has ’duties’ and the other is that there are sometimes troubles in the east. Would these troubles come out of Farlong?”

  The fact that a stranger from the west would be familiar with lands that lay beyond Seneca’s eastern borders genuinely surprised the tall, dark-eyed man. “Farlong, yes.” He gazed at Aram with renewed interest, then, after a moment, nodded. “There is nothing private, as you say, in any of these things. Farlong is uncivilized, its people uncouth and rough – though we trade with them, we often find them untrustworthy. There have been incidents of thievery, and even an occasional assault – and one murder. Andar deals with these problems as part of his duties.”

  Aram felt a twinge of disappointment. “So Andar’s duties are not really of a military nature? You have no armies?”

  Matibar watched him without expression. “Except for the people of Farlong, who are as disorganized as they are untrustworthy, there is nothing upon our borders that would require military action.” He was silent a moment, gazing at Aram, obviously hesitant to continue, but then – “We do have an army, however, and if it were ever needed, command and disposition would fall to me, and to others of my station, not Andar. Though he is the son of the Eldest, and heir to the Seat of Instruction; he is not a Captain of the Land. I am.”

  It was Aram’s turn to be surprised, and also impressed. After casting a significant glance toward Findaen, he asked. “And do you decide when to go to war – should it become necessary?”

  “Of course I do not. Such things are decided by the Council – I am but a Commander of Forces.” He shrugged. “Besides, we are nearly alone in our corner of the world – with whom would we go to war?”

  Aram sensed the underlying challenge in the question, but he didn’t want to discuss these things here and now. Instead, after a moment, he asked. “Is it a far journey to where the Eldest dwells?”

  “A week of days, perhaps one day less, if the journey is urgent,” Matibar answered.

  Aram frowned. “Walking?”

  “How else? Of course we walk – it is why the Maker gave us feet.”

  Aram smiled slightly. “He gave us the horse people for friends as well. Why walk, when they are willing to bear us?”

  “Ah, but unlike you, we have no horses.”

  “We have no horses, either,” Aram stated, a bit harshly. “What we do have are willing friends that will bear us great distances in much less time than can be accomplished afoot. How many of your people will go on this journey to Mulbar?”

  “I alone will go – to show you the way, and to bring your presence in our l
and to the Eldest’s attention. There is no need to trouble others.”

  Aram nodded thoughtfully. “Is there a common house there also?”

  “Every town has a common house,” Matibar answered.

  Aram looked at Findaen. “We can leave the bulk of our equipment here, if Matibar does not object – that will free up Yvan and Jerba.” At Findaen’s nod of agreement, he turned back to Matibar. “Are you agreeable to riding a horse?”

  Matibar widened his dark eyes in surprise. “I do not know how.”

  Aram shrugged in response. “There is little to know, and the horse will aid you. It’s just a journey over smooth road – not a charge into battle.”

  Matibar’s eyes opened wider. “The horses go into battle with you?”

  “My mount – and my great friend, whose name is Thaniel – has borne me into battle many times,” Aram answered. “He is a great warrior.”

  Matibar narrowed his eyes deliberately as he contemplated this. After a moment he glanced at his wife and then inclined his head. “I will ride.”

  The next day dawned very like the previous day, warm and a bit sultry. After a few turns along the grassy banks of the stream to the east of the town, Matibar professed himself ready to take to the road atop Yvan’s broad back. Despite the fact that there was no extra saddle, the tall, slender Senecan seemed remarkably at ease. Most of the town had turned out to watch the captain’s attempt at doing that which had never been imagined, and they cheered him loudly as it became obvious that the man was a natural rider.

  With the sun less than two hours in the sky, Matibar bade farewell to his wife and children, and the column went eastward along the smooth dirt track. Once again, the stones that had been removed from the road were stacked just inside the verge of the forest, where the undergrowth slowly swallowed Joktan’s ancient work.

  That morning, they passed through two more towns, similar in size and construction, to Candar. Aram marveled at the innate neatness of these people. Even the stone that had been removed from the road and from various ancient structures had not been simply knocked down and thrown aside. Though considered inherently evil – or at least a symbol of wicked living – it had been nonetheless stacked in neat rows and mounds, as if stored for future use.